Chain of Iron Page 3
Probably best not to mention that now, she thought. “Matthew did promise me scandal,” she said, “but I suspect the Clave frowns on Shadowhunters attending birthday parties for well-known demons.”
“It isn’t her birthday,” said Hypatia. “Merely a day of celebration. We believe it to be the time she left the Garden of Eden.”
“The red baubles hanging from the trees,” Cordelia said, realizing. “They’re apples. Forbidden fruit.”
“The Hell Ruelle delights,” said Hypatia, smiling, “at the consumption of that which is forbidden. We believe it is more delicious for being taboo.”
Matthew shrugged. “I can’t see why the Clave would mind. I don’t believe we need to celebrate Lilith, or anything like that. It’s really just decorations.”
Hypatia looked amused. “Of course. Nothing else. Which reminds me…”
She glanced meaningfully at Kellington’s faerie companion, who rose and offered Hypatia her seat. Hypatia took it without a second glance, spreading her skirts out around her. The faerie melted back into the crowd as Hypatia went on, “My Pyxis has been missing since the last night you were here, Miss Carstairs. Matthew was here too, I remember. I’m wondering if I might have inadvertently made a gift of it to you?”
Oh no. Cordelia thought of the Pyxis they had stolen months ago: it had exploded during a battle with a Mandikhor demon. She looked at Matthew. He shrugged and nicked a mug of spiced wine from the tray of a passing faerie waiter. Cordelia cleared her throat. “I believe you did, actually. I believe you wished me the best of luck for my future.”
“Not only was it a thoughtful gift,” Matthew added, “it was very helpful in saving the city of London from destruction.”
“Yes,” Cordelia agreed. “Instrumental. An absolutely necessary aid in preventing complete disaster.”
“Mr. Fairchild, you are a bad influence on Miss Carstairs. She is beginning to develop a worrying amount of cheek.” Hypatia turned to Cordelia, her starry eyes unreadable. “I must say, I’m a bit surprised to see you tonight. I would have thought a Shadowhunter bride would want to spend the evening before her nuptials sharpening her weapons, or beheading stuffed dummies.”
Cordelia began to wonder why Matthew had brought her to the Ruelle. No one wanted to spend the night before their wedding being scorned by haughty warlocks, however interestingly decorated the surroundings. “I am no ordinary Shadowhunter bride,” she said shortly.
Hypatia only smiled. “As you say,” she said. “I think there are a few guests here who’ve been expecting you.”
Cordelia glanced across the room and saw, to her surprise, two familiar figures sitting at a table. Anna Lightwood, gorgeous as always in a fitted frock coat and blue spats, and Lucie Herondale, looking neat and pretty in an ivory dress with blue beading and waving energetically.
“Did you invite them?” she said to Matthew, who had turned up his flask again. He tipped it into his mouth, grimaced at finding it empty, and tucked it back into his pocket. His eyes were glitter-bright.
“I did,” he said. “I can’t stay—must make my way to James’s party—but I wanted to make sure you were well accompanied. They have instructions to dance and drink the night away with you. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Cordelia leaned in to kiss Matthew on the cheek—he smelled of cloves and brandy—but he turned his face at the last moment, and her kiss brushed his lips. She drew away quickly and saw Kellington and Hypatia both watching her with sharp eyes.
“Before you go, Fairchild, I see your flask is empty,” said Kellington. “Come with me to the bar; I’ll have it refilled with anything you like.”
He was looking at Matthew with a curious expression—a bit the way Cordelia recalled Kellington looking at her, after her dance. A hungry sort of look.
“I’ve never been one to turn down the offer of ‘anything you like,’ ” said Matthew, allowing himself to be spirited away by Kellington. Cordelia considered calling out after him but decided against it—and anyway, Anna was gesturing at her to come join their table.
She took her leave of Hypatia and was halfway across the room when something caught her eye in the shadows: two male figures, close together. She realized with a jolt that they were Matthew and Kellington. Matthew was leaning against the wall, Kellington—the taller of the two—bending over him.
Kellington’s hand rose to cup the back of Matthew’s neck, his fingers in Matthew’s soft hair.
Cordelia saw Matthew shake his head just as more dancers joined the throng on the floor, cutting off her view; when they passed, she saw that Matthew was gone and Kellington, looking stormy, was headed back across the room toward Hypatia. She wondered why she had been so shocked—it was hardly news to her that Matthew liked men as well as women, and Matthew was single: his decisions were his own. Still, Kellington’s overall air discomfited her. She hoped Matthew would be careful—
Someone placed a hand on her arm.
She whirled to see a woman standing before her—the faerie who’d been seated with Kellington earlier. She wore a dress of emerald velvet, and around her throat was a necklace of gleaming blue stones.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she said breathlessly, as though nervous. “Are you—are you the girl who danced for us all some months ago?”
“I am,” said Cordelia warily.
“I thought I recognized you,” the faerie said. She had a pale, intent face. “I quite admired your skill. And the sword, of course. Am I correct in thinking that the blade you bear is Cortana itself?” She whispered this last part, as though just invoking the name took courage.
“Oh, no,” Cordelia said. “It’s a fake. Just a nicely made replica.”
The faerie stared at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, very good!” she said. “I forget sometimes that mortals joke—it is a sort of lie, isn’t it, yet meant to be funny? But any true faerie would know the work of Wayland the Smith.” She gazed at the sword in admiration. “If I may say so, Wayland is the greatest living metalworker of the British Isles.”
That brought Cordelia up short. “Living?” she echoed. “Are you saying that Wayland the Smith is still alive?”
“Why, of course!” said the faerie, clapping her hands, and Cordelia wondered whether she was about to reveal that Wayland the Smith was in fact the rather drunk goblin in the corner with the lampshade on his head. But she only said, “Nothing that he has made has passed into human hands in many centuries, but it is said he still operates his forge, under a barrow in the Berkshire Downs.”
“Indeed,” Cordelia said, trying to catch Anna’s eye in hope of rescue. “How very interesting.”
“If you had any thought of meeting Cortana’s maker, I could take you. Past the great white horse and under the hill. For only a coin and a promise of—”
“No,” Cordelia said firmly. She might be as naive as the Ruelle’s clientele assumed her to be, but even she knew the right response to a faerie trying to make a deal: walk away. “Enjoy the party,” she added, “but I must go.”
As she turned away, the woman said, in a low voice, “You need not marry a man who does not love you, you know.”
Cordelia froze. She glanced back over her shoulder; the faerie was looking at her with all the dreaminess gone from her expression. It was pinched, sharp and watchful now.
“There are other paths,” the woman said. “I could help.”
Cordelia schooled her face to blankness. “My friends are waiting for me,” she said, and walked away, her heart hammering. She sank into a chair
opposite Anna and Lucie. They greeted her with cheers, but her mind was miles away.
A man who does not love you. How could that faerie know?
“Daisy!” Anna said. “Do pay attention. We’re fussing over you.” She was drinking from a tapered flute of pale champagne, and with a wave of her fingers a second one appeared, which she handed to Cordelia.
“Hurrah!” Lucie cried in delight, before returning to ignoring her cider and her friends completely, alternating instead between scribbling furiously in a notebook and staring into the middle distance.
“Did the light of inspiration hit you, pet?” Cordelia asked. Her heart was beginning to slow down. The faerie had been full of nonsense, she told herself firmly. She must have heard Hypatia talking to Cordelia about her wedding and decided to play upon the insecurities of any bride. Who didn’t worry that the man they were going to marry might not love them? In Cordelia’s case it might be true, but anyone would fear it, and faeries preyed upon the fears of mortals. It meant nothing—just an effort to get from Cordelia what she had asked for before: a coin and a promise.
Lucie waved an ink-stained hand to get her attention. “There is so much material here,” she said. “Did you see Malcolm Fade over there? I adore his coat. Oh, I’ve decided that rather than being a dashing naval officer, Lord Kincaid should be an artist whose work was banned in London, so he fled to Paris, where he makes the beautiful Cordelia his muse and is welcomed into all the best salons—”
“What happened to the Duke of Blankshire?” said Cordelia. “I thought fictional Cordelia was about to become a duchess.”
“He died,” said Lucie, licking some ink off her finger. Around her neck, a gilded chain gleamed. She had been wearing the same plain gold locket for several months now; when Cordelia had asked her about it, Lucie had said it was an old family heirloom meant to be good luck. Cordelia could still remember its presence, a gold flash in the darkness, the night James had nearly died from demon poison in Highgate Cemetary. She did not recall having seen Lucie wear the necklace before that time. She could have pressed Lucie on it, she supposed, but she knew she kept her own secrets from her future parabatai—she could hardly demand to know all of Lucie’s, especially about a matter as small as a locket.
“This sounds like quite a tragic novel,” said Anna, admiring the way her champagne reflected the light.
“Oh, it’s not,” said Lucie. “I didn’t want fictional Cordelia to be tied to only one man. I wanted her to have adventures.”
“Not quite the sentiment one might hope for on the eve of a wedding,” said Anna, “but I applaud it nonetheless. Though one hopes that you will continue having adventures even after being married, Daisy.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she lifted her glass in a toast.
Lucie hoisted her mug. “To the end of freedom! To the beginning of a joyous captivity!”
“Nonsense,” Anna said. “A woman’s wedding is the beginning of her liberation, Lucie.”
“And how is that?” asked Cordelia.
“An unmarried lady,” said Anna, “is perceived by society as being in a temporary state of not being married, and in hopes of becoming married at any moment. A married woman, on the other hand, can flirt with whomever she wants, without damaging her reputation. She can travel freely. To and from my flat, for instance.”
Lucie’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that some of your love affairs have been with ladies who are already married?”
“I am saying it is the case more often than not,” Anna said. “It is simply the case that a married woman is in a freer position to do as she pleases. A single young lady can hardly leave the house unaccompanied. A married lady can shop, go to lectures, meet friends—she has a dozen excuses for being away from home while wearing a flattering hat.”
Cordelia giggled. Anna and Lucie were always able to cheer her up. “And you do like a lady in a flattering hat.”
Anna raised a thoughtful finger. “A lady who can choose a hat that truly suits her is very likely to have paid attention to every layer of her ensemble.”
“What a wise observation,” said Lucie. “Do you mind if I put it in my novel? It’s just the sort of thing Lord Kincaid would say.”
“Do as you like, magpie,” said Anna, “you’ve stolen half my best lines already.” Her gaze flicked about the room. “Did you see Matthew with Kellington? I hope that doesn’t start up again.”
“What happened with Kellington?” Lucie inquired.
“He rather broke Matthew’s heart, a year or so back,” said Anna. “Matthew has a habit of getting his heart broken. He seems to prefer a hopeless love.”
“Does he?” Lucie was scribbling in her book again. “Oh, dear.”
“Greetings, lovely ladies,” said a tall young man with dead-white skin and curling brown hair, appearing at their table as if by magic. “Which of you dazzling beauties yearns to dance with me first?”
Lucie leaped up. “I shall dance with you,” she said. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Er—yes?”
“Capital. We shall dance, and you will tell me all about vampirism. Do you stalk beautiful ladies through the streets of the city in the hopes of snatching a sip of their genteel blood? Do you weep because your soul is damned?”
The young man’s dark eyes darted around worriedly. “I really only wanted to waltz,” he said, but Lucie had already seized him and dragged him out onto the floor. Music rose up in a surge, and Cordelia clinked glasses with Anna, both of them laughing.
“Poor Edwin,” Anna said, looking out at the dancers. “He has a nervous disposition at the best of times. Now, Cordelia, pray tell me every detail of the wedding plans, and I will get us some fresh champagne.”
2 ALL THAT TURNS
If sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a gully, in the mournful solitude of your bed chamber, you wake up, the intoxication diminished or dispelled, ask the wind, a wave, a star, a bird, a clock, all that flees, all that moans, all that turns, all that sings, all that speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: “It is time to become intoxicated! To not be the martyred slave of Time, be intoxicated; be unceasingly intoxicated! With wine, with poetry, with virtue, as you wish.
—Charles Baudelaire, “Enivrez-vous”
“Look out behind you!” Christopher barked in alarm. James ducked hastily out of the way. Two werewolves flew past them, locked in drunken combat, and crashed to the floor. Thomas held his glass above his head to keep it safe from the jostling crowd.
James had not been sure that the Devil Tavern was the right place for this party, given that he was there several days a week anyway, but Matthew had been insistent, intimating that he’d arranged something special.
James glanced about at the chaos and sighed a quiet inner sigh. “I rather imagined a more sedate evening.”
Things had not been so riotous when they first arrived. The Devil was doing its usual lively, friendly evening business, and James would have been happy to slip upstairs to their private rooms, as he had so many times before, and simply relax with his oldest friends.
Matthew, however, had immediately climbed onto a chair, demanded the entire pub’s attention by clanging his stele against the metal chandelier, and cried out, “Friends! This evening my parabatai, James Jeremiah Jehoshaphat Herondale, celebrates his last night as a single man!”
The whole pub had whooped and cheered.
James had waved a hand to thank and dismiss his well-wishers, but it seemed they weren’t done. Downworlders of all kinds approached to shake his hand and pound his back and wish him happy. To his surprise, James realized that he knew most everyone present—that he’d known many of them, in fact, since he was a boy, and they had watched him grow up.
There was Nisha, the “oldest vampire from the oldest part of this old city,” as she always said. There were Sid and Sid, the two werewolves who were always arguing over which of them could be “Sid” and wh
ich must be “Sidney.” The odd cluster of hobgoblins who chattered among each other, never spoke to anyone else, but periodically sent free drinks to other customers, seemingly at random. They surrounded James and demanded he finish the whiskey in his hand so that he might drink the whiskey they’d brought to replace it.
James was genuinely touched by the outpouring of sentiment, but it only made him feel even more uneasy about the nature of his marriage. It will all be over in a year, he thought. If you knew that, you would not be celebrating.
Matthew had disappeared up the stairs soon after his speech and left the rest of them to be surrounded by the rowdy revelers getting drunker and drunker in James’s honor, until, of course, the inevitable moment when Sid threw a punch at Sid and a roar of equal parts approval and mockery rose from the crowd.
Thomas, a scowl on his face, used his broad frame and considerable muscles to maneuver the three of them into a less crowded corner of the room.
“Cheers, Thomas,” Christopher said. His brown hair was ruffled, his spectacles pushed halfway up his head. “Matthew’s special entertainment should be starting…” He looked hopefully toward the stairs. “Any minute now.”
“When Matthew plans a special something, it’s usually either terribly delightful or delightfully terrible,” said James. “Do any of us want to take bets on which this will be?”
Christopher smiled a bit. “A thing of surpassing beauty, according to Matthew.”
“That could be anything,” said James, watching Polly the barmaid march into the middle of the fray to pull the Sids apart as Pickles the kelpie took bets on who would be the winner.
Thomas uncrossed his arms and said, “It’s a mermaid.”
“It’s a what?” said James.
“A mermaid,” Thomas repeated. “Enacting some kind of… sultry mermaid performance.”
“Some friend of his from the demimonde, you know,” put in Christopher, who seemed pleased to know the word “demimonde.” Admittedly, Matthew’s frequent assignations with poets and courtesans were a far cry from Christopher’s tinctures and test tubes, or Thomas’s extensive library and intensive training regimen. Nevertheless, they both seemed relieved to have spilled the secret.